


Letters from Home

by Polly_Phemus (orphan_account)



Series: Dom down the Hall Prompts, Timestamps &tc [13]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Epistolary, F/M, Family Secrets, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 08:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Polly_Phemus
Summary: Jared gets letters from his parents and learns about events from his father's past that affected his childhood and continue to reverberate to the present.Content warning: A lot of this story deals with an abusive relationship and rape (as well sex which is problematic at best when it comes to consent issues), however, neither the description of the rape nor the dubious consent is graphic. The violence is a bit more graphically described but not still in great detail.The abuse and rape arenotbetween Jensen and Jared but rather something that happened in the past involving original characters.  (Actually, I should probably warn for this: Jared and Jensen are barely in the story at all.)If any of this might be a problem for you, please be safe and don't read it.  Skipping this story shouldn't affect your ability to read future stories in this 'verse, except for one (planned) direct follow-up which will also have warnings.





	Letters from Home

_When Jared got home from Atlanta Pines on an ordinary Wednesday in late August, he didn't have much on his mind beyond walking the dogs and wondering when Jensen would be home. Once he'd taken care of the Zucchini and Cardy, he picked up his mail from the concierge, expecting the usual round of junk mail._

_To his surprise, one of the larger envelopes was from his parents. He opened it to find two more sealed envelopes and a cover letter._

Dear Jared,

We've been meaning to write these letters for a long time now, but have been procrastinating. Now we no longer have that luxury. We've kept so many things from you, mostly because they were so painful to talk about. We wrote a "1" on the letter from Dad and a "2" on the letter from Mom; please read them in that order. 

We love you so much, Jared. This isn't about you or anything you've done. This is about the past, things that happened before you born, but which ended up affecting your childhood nevertheless.

Love,

 

Dad and Mom

_Jared picked up the letter marked "1." They didn't really need to put numbers on the letters; he'd know their handwriting anywhere. The one from his father was very thick and heavy while the one from his mother was probably no more than a page. Very carefully, he opened the first letter and began to read what his father had to tell him._

 

Dear Jared,

I have so much to tell you and I've been going over and over how I should go about it. I talked to someone and she said maybe I should write a letter and see how that went. So that's where I'm starting. This is something I've wanted to do for a long time but have kept putting off. Unfortunately, events have rather forced my hand.

I know that I've been a disappointment to you and that you blame your mother for that. I knew that the way we were bringing you up was less than ideal but it's only recently that I've started to realize the extent of the damage we did. I did. Because it was my responsibility to tell you about sex and relationships and I chickened out. Your mother did better with your brother and sister (we agreed early that she would have The Talk with any dom children we had and I'd take care of matters with our sub children; I failed, she didn't). So while your brother and sister don't know everything I'm about to tell you, they know that the traditions in our household are just that: ours. Your mother told them that they probably shouldn't expect things to be like that in their own relationships. I wish I'd told you the same. Not that you didn't figure it out on your own, of course, but I wish I'd had the courage to talk to you about it.

But despite our failings...my failings...you've grown up to be a happy, healthy adult with a good education, a good job and prospects. We're both so proud of you for all that you've achieved. We're also very happy that you've finally met someone you can be with, but that's icing. 

It's hard to know where to start. I guess I might as well go back to long before you were born because without knowing what happened back then, any explanation I could give for why we made the decisions we did would make even less sense to you.

In 1982, I graduated from high school in San Antonio. With Aunt Lucy's approval, I went to a summer program in Savannah (your Savannah, in Georgia, not some other Savannah) to study textile arts before I started nursing school at Emory. It was a fine program, a chance to meet artists of all kinds from all over the country. World, really. 

The third night I was there, they had a big reception for all the students and donors and faculty. It was a grand event, collars and cuffs all the way. I met a handsome dom, named Paul. He was tall and blond and had the sweetest, quietest voice I'd ever heard from a dom. He was a few years older than I was, but not scandalously so. He was there escorting his sub mother, who was the widow of one of the original donors to the program. Obscenely wealthy people, but he wasn't some arrogant snob from a frat house. He took a genuine interest in me and my art. Or so I thought.

He was also a sub ally and told me about the local sub liberation movement, suggested that I go to one of their meetings. That sounded pretty good to me; you know how progressive Aunt Lucy is and I'd long entertained notions of following in her footsteps. So I went to the meeting and Paul was there. It was all very exciting, the initiatives they were sponsoring and workshops they were holding. I wasn't sure how much I'd be able to participate given my work in the arts program and that I was only in town for the summer, but Paul suggested that I might want to at least attend the general meetings and then I could participate more fully in the Atlanta political scene.

We went out for cokes after (I guess today it would be Starbuck's). Paul was so charming and interested in me and I was swept off my feet. He took me out several times over the next couple of weeks. He took me shopping for clothes, bought me a picture I admired at an art gallery, records he thought I would like, books....

I was young, Jared. Young and so achingly naive. I thought he was being generous and kind. Even loving. It never occurred to me that I was being bought. And I didn't even notice that I barely spent time with the other students in the program. I went to all the workshops and classes and was learning a lot; I thought that was the only point of the program and that as long as I went to those things it was okay that I was spending all my free time with Paul.

I guess you can see where this is going, huh? Paul, of course, wasn't Prince Charming. He was a manipulative bastard who wanted to control me. And I just didn't see it. He'd talk about how I was much "better" than textile arts. That I should be doing fine arts, that I could be a great artist. I don't know how to explain how undermining that was. Maybe it was as if you had someone tell you that being a nutritionist was a complete waste of your talents, you should be a chef instead. Not just any chef, but Cordon Bleu! Work in New York! Maybe win a James Beard Award!

Maybe you'd be flattered. Maybe you'd be inspired. I was flattered, of course, but terrified. I didn't think I had it in me to be a great artist or even a mediocre one. And I loved my knitting in a way I could never love painting. But Paul said I wasn't ambitious enough. That knitting was beneath me.

There were other things, too. Physical things. I had dated in high school but I was kind of like you: not exactly shy around doms, but not exactly impressed by them either. Paul was different. And I'll leave it there: naive young sub with little experience of physical love falls for controlling dom. And doesn't know the difference between love and abuse. 

Things escalated and quickly. A month passed and we were having a mid-program show for the donors. Paul had been pushing me to do a giant, ambitious tapestry project, saying it would be good experience for when I started to paint. I chose to knit. I picked my materials carefully and came up with a pattern. In fact, it was very similar to one I still use. It was my first ocean afghan, pretty close to the one you may well be sitting near as you're reading this.

We had our show on Saturday, July 3. Everyone praised my work, even Paul although he looked a little strained about it. The next day, I went to a July 4th barbecue at Paul's house. When the fireworks started, and I can't believe it happened that way, he took me inside. He, well, did things that were just a more extreme version of what we'd already been doing. If you understand my meaning. I didn't like of all of those things, but I liked some of them well enough to tolerate the rest. Or so I'd been telling myself. But that night was different, more intense. I tried to get him to stop, but he didn't.

He said I was a bad sub, caught between liberation and tradition. He was offering me liberation and expanding my horizons and I was too stuck in the past to see it. He took out my afghan, which he'd finagled out of the display show and said it represented everything that was wrong with me. He threw it into the fireplace and burned it.

I tried to stop him, but I couldn't. He made me watch it burn, saying that it was a demonstration of just what a waste of my time and talent that project had been. He held me so tight until it was completely obliterated. I struggled and he held tighter. He was sexually aroused by the whole thing. When he finally let me go, I punched him.

It felt so good! I'd never hit anyone in my life, but it was like all the stars were in alignment and everything slotted into place. When he burned my work and made me feel how turned on he got from that, I finally saw him for who and what he was.

It was a punch for the ages. He fell back and not just in shock alone, I'd like to think. I ran out of his room and....

Well, I still don't remember what happened. The next thing I remember, I was in the hospital and it was July 8th. His room was on the second floor of a fancy mansion with a long, white flight of marble stairs and according to Paul, who was the only person there besides me, I slipped and fell after I punched him. My injuries, while extensive, were consistent with his story.

I can't know for sure, but I suspect I had some help going down those stairs.

I never saw him again. Again, I have to rely on other people's accounts, but I guess Aunt Lucy came right away and had some kind of big showdown with Paul while I was in a coma. She arranged to have me transferred back to San Antonio once I was out of the woods. I guess she told him that however much pull he had with the police in Savannah, she had twice as much in San Antonio and if he ever came near me again...well, you know your Aunt Lucy!

Recovery was long and boring; one bright spot was getting a letter from the program saying that on the day of the mid-program show, they'd decided to award me a prize which and they were sorry I'd had to withdraw and "take my project with me." It sounds terrible now, but at the time it made me feel a little better, since I was starting to realize just how wrong Paul had been about so many things and this was just outside validation of that as well as of my own abilities. A few months later, I was well enough to go out again. By Memorial Day, I was long done with formal physical therapy (although I still had exercises I did on my own) so I went with Aunt Lucy to Galveston (that was the first summer she had her place there). I got a job in a yarn shop...thank God, my hands weren't nearly as damaged as the rest of me, so I'd spent several months knitting up a storm. That's how I got to be so fast with those famous one-week sweaters of mine!

Anyway, there was an older lady, a sub, who used to come into the shop for our weekly knitting circle. One day she brought along her dom granddaughter and I was rather smitten! That was your mother, of course. I liked her immediately but I was cautious. She was so traditional, though, that she applied to Aunt Lucy for permission to court me before she even asked me out to dinner...she kept coming to the knitting circle even though she was absolutely hopeless at it, just to spend time with me. 

Aunt Lucy looked into her background (your mother actually provided references, which Aunt Lucy mostly ignored in favor of asking about her from people who didn't give her references; they all said pretty much the same things about her). Aunt Lucy showed me the references (both the ones your mother provided and those she didn't!) and said it was up to me.

Well, I was terrified. I didn't realize it then but I had PTSD. Back then, people thought it was only for soldiers so it didn't occur to anyone that other survivors could have it, too. Everyone said I was "skittish" and other things like that. That I had to get back on the horse and so on. So I decided to go out with your mother. I asked her if we could get hotdogs on the beach. You know the story from there!

Jared, that decision was the best one I ever made, even better than punching Paul. Your mom was exactly the right person for me then. And she still is. I can see you shaking your head, but let me try to explain.

While we were courting, your mother and I talked about the kind of relationship we wanted to have. I wanted someone traditional after the false promises of liberation Paul had given me. I asked her to strap me weekly because I found (and still find) the strap comforting. It actually calms me down. I don't know if you ever noticed this, but your mother has never actually punished me. I got the weekly strapping that I asked for and that was mostly it. Except for some other stuff that's strictly sexual in nature. Every once in a while, I'd ask for an unscheduled strapping if I was having a particularly tough time of it but I always had to talk her into it.

And the kneeling during dinner. I know how much that bothered you, but...well, Paul used to take me to dinner parties. And afterwards, he'd tell me exactly what I'd done or said that was wrong or foolish or embarrassing so that I'd "improve." When I got out of the hospital, I could barely function at a dinner table. That's why we spent all summer eating hotdogs on the beach and having picnics instead of going to fancy restaurants.

I asked your mother if she'd be willing to let me kneel by her side where I couldn't do or say anything wrong. She was hesitant but she was willing to try. And you obviously know the result of that.

And here's my biggest confession: when you said you wanted to go to college, I was terrified. I hid behind your mother and let her argue against it. I let her set the conditions of having to stay with us and go to UTSA instead of further away. I think she was also worried about you and she agreed with my reasons for wanting to keep you close.

She also suggested that, with you in college, I was probably going to be very stressed out worrying about you, and that maybe we should try therapy. We started seeing a couples' counselor and he recommended individual therapists for both of us. Mine also referred me to a psychiatrist and I started taking medication for my PTSD, which finally had a diagnosis.

I think if we hadn't taken those steps, I may not have been able to "let" you move to Atlanta. I would've gotten your mother to be the bad guy and tried to keep you here forever. And never seen why that would've been so wrong. 

Okay, now you know almost all of it. A week ago, I would've said you knew everything, but something new has come up, which is why I'm writing to you now instead of putting it off even more than I already have.

Paul died and left me a substantial amount of money. He never got anyone to pledge to him or have his children, so I guess he decided his big legacy would be controlling me from beyond the grave. He wrote his will so that in the event that I predecease him, the money goes to the American Nazi Party. As near as I can tell, if I refuse the inheritance, that means the Nazis get Paul's money. He wasn't a Nazi (not politically, anyway) but he picked the most repellent cause he could think of so that I would have to take his money.

We're looking for a probate attorney in Georgia who might be able to figure out a way to break Paul's will. I think we've found the right person for the job, but we were worried that, since he's in the field, word might get back to your Mr. Ackles about this case. So we wanted to tell you before we even hire anyone so that it didn't get back to you some other way. Or maybe there's a lawyer thing where Mr. Ackles might find out about this but not be able to say anything to you and have to keep our secrets from you.

Obviously this isn't how or why I wanted to tell you, but if this hadn't happened I'd still be afraid to write this letter. I am still afraid, but the clock is ticking on the bequest and we have to engage the lawyer soon.

I am so sorry that all of these sins have been visited on your generation, too. Please try to understand why I made the choices I did and why your mother went along with them. I hope that we'll be able to see you soon. The attorney we're hoping to hire is in Atlanta and we'll be coming to see her (or him if the one we think we're going to hire can't help us) and I hope you'll want to see us. 

If it helps, I no longer kneel next to your mother at dinner but have finally taken my place at the table. 

Love,

 

Dad

 

Dear Jared,

Your father tried to get me to read the letter he wrote to you, but I told him that it's between the two of you. All I want to say is that I love your father very much and I've tried to help as best as I could over the years. And that I'm so proud of everything you've done with your life so far. I know I haven't always been there and that I haven't always been as supportive of you as I should have been and for that I am sorry. 

I hope you'll be able to see us when we come to Atlanta. Maybe we could have dinner? I don't know if this will influence your decision at all, but your father doesn't kneel for dinner these days.

Love,

Mom

_Jared sat and stared at the pages of dense, nervous handwriting, not really seeing them, roused only by a knock on the door. Still in shock, he stood up, barely noticing his afghan falling from his lap to the floor. He answered the door without really thinking about what he was doing._

_"Hey, I texted and called and got no.... Jared? What's wrong? Why are you crying?"_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure when I realized that Jared's parents, particularly his father, had a giant backstory of their own. Probably before I finished the first cycle of "Dom down the Hall" stories. Definitely by the time I wrote "Saturday Morning Communications." 
> 
> I was originally going to write this as a much more complicated story that would've told Jared's dad's story through an extended flashback rather than being summarized in a letter. But I was hesitant to throw myself into their world for such a difficult story but at the same time I felt compelled to tell it. So I went with this format instead; the distancing mechanism of a letter helped keep me from getting to far into my own head on this one.


End file.
